“I admire you deeply, I am your number one fan.
You don't have to worry, you'll recover, I'm your number fan”.
These were the words of consolation that Annie Wilkes, the craziest reader that fiction has given, would convey to her admired writer Paul Sheldon when he woke up at her house after having suffered a traffic accident at the beginning of the film adaptation of
Misery
, the Stephen King novel that taught us to appreciate the fortune of keeping our sanity and our ankles.
It seemed to me that I heard them at a very low frequency during another horror story, less than two minutes long, that was broadcast in the last
Salvados
, dedicated to Plácido Domingo.
In a brief cut, Gonzo, at the door of the Maestranza, asks a handful of people about to attend a recital of the tenor what they think of the accusations of harassment —more than 27 testimonies and he accepted "responsibility for his acts”—.
"There are also women who take advantage of men."
"Opportunists".
"Surely they are all false testimonies, most of what they are looking for is money."
"Those things have to be said when they happen."
"I hope that what they say... After all, it has not been proven in court."
"He talked about how he was unaware and that at one time gallantry could have been confused with going too far."
"It hasn't done anything to me in particular."
There is an effort to invite those who highlight the miseries of certain public figures to undertake the salutary task of separating artist from work when it seems that those who most need to carry it out are the number one followers.
Fanatics who maintain and explain the system, its alpha and omega.
People who, if necessary, could torture.
To his idol or to whoever dares to question him.
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